


Something Other Than the Light

by tepidspongebath



Series: Concerning plants and sunlight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, Other, PWP, Sounding, Tentacle Monster Plant Thing, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113515674#t113515674">This prompt on the Sherlock kink meme</a> asking for Sherlock creating a monster plant, said monster plant wilting despite his best efforts, said monster plant being given to John, and then said monster plant having its way with John Watson and feeling much better for it afterwards also said that there'd be bonus points for a round with John and the plant with Sherlock in the room, observing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Other Than the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I went for the bonus points.
> 
> Also, it took me a very, very long time to own up for this fic.
> 
> *runs away and hides again*

It had been inevitable, of course, that Sherlock Holmes would find out. Especially since the plant had continued to fuck John three ways from Sunday,  _and_ sideways,  _and_  there and back again every single night since it had first been placed in his room. (He hadn't asked Sherlock to move it out, not properly - he'd tried once, and found himself reconsidering.)  
  
So it was probably equally inevitable that Sherlock Holmes would want to see this for himself. To, in short, observe the plant,  _his_  plant, while it did what it did so thoroughly to his flatmate.  
  
And that was why he was in John's room, sitting on a chair a little way from the foot of the bed, watching as the tentacles snaked from the pot (a bigger one now, he'd had to re-pot it) to have their way with John Hamish Watson.  
  
John had briefly hoped - irrationally, he knew - that the plant would be shy, and would do nothing with Sherlock in the room. He had been very wrong indeed. Currently the nectar-secreting tentacle was in his mouth again, and his hands were bound together at his back by the wrists. He was on his stomach, painfully aware of what was going to happen eventually, with Sherlock staring right up his arsehole.   
  
Nevertheless his cheeks hollowed as he sucked on the thing in his mouth, and he didn't resist - he'd learned not to, just as he'd learned to not bother sleeping clothed, though he'd put on pants tonight for Sherlock's benefit - as tentacles pulled his arse up, making him support himself on his knees. He thought he heard Sherlock shift in his seat as he moaned hungrily as the plant touched him lightly through his underwear before withdrawing with a start. If John hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the plant was surprised at encountering the boxers again after he'd started leaving them off a couple of weeks ago. And he'd have thought it was angry petulance that drove it to not simply removing the boxers (as it had done for all of eight nights) but instead ripping them off, splitting them right down the seams by snaking two appendages down each leg and pulling hard.  
  
John grunted at that, because his cock had already been straining against the fabric (he'd been getting erect so much more readily, only needing a few tugs and touches from the plant to go from zero to a full, heavy hard-on), and it had hurt.   
  
"So," said Sherlock breathily.  
  
John tried to push himself flat against the bed at that reminder of another presence in the room, in an attempt to hide what he could, but the plant held him steady. A tentacle trailed from the cleft of his arse to his prick and then back again, before plunging in, hard and relentless and, for John, totally unexpected.  
  
It had always prepared him before, and he cried out now at the sharp pleasure-pain of sudden penetration. The appendage in his mouth slid out now, as it usually did at this point, and John tensed and writhed as the tentacle inside him pressed up against his prostate.  
  
His tongue darted out to lick his lips (sweet-bitter nectar still clung to them), and he drew a steadying breath as he ground down on the thing taking him from behind.  
  
"Do you -  _ngggh_  - want to know what it feels like, Sherlock?" he asked, his sweat-slick cheek pressed to his pillow. "You can't see it from there, I'm betting, but -  _Christ_  - it - bloody - feels - like the thing's sprouted more tentacles in there and it is -  _fuck_  - tickling,  _tickling_  my prostate. In there." John gasped. "That's a fairly -  _God_  - new trick."   
  
And the doctor lost his words as the plant wrapped more appendages around his leaking cock, the tips of them teasing at the slit. One of them, thinner than the rest, probed a little deeper, and slid down  _inside_  his cock, and John shouted at that, broken obscenities leaving his sore lips.

"I take it this is the first time it did that." Sherlock's voice was cool, detached, and John wished he could stand up and punch the man. The plant tightened its grip on him as if it could sense the thought. It also shoved the tentacle back into John's mouth, as it did whenever he became less than totally compliant, and the doctor nearly came from that. His jaws worked greedily, despite the fact that they were starting to ache, despite the knowledge of Sherlock watching, despite his not knowing how to move, being invaded in both arse and cock.   
  
The tentacle in his prick slid out, leaving a painful wrong-but-right sensation in its wake that had John groaning around the thing in his mouth. More tentacles slid down between his legs to cup his balls, heavy now, fondling them, one more sensation in addition to everything else.  
  
John heard Sherlock leave his chair, heard him moving closer. He shuddered when he felt a cool finger touch him where the tentacle entered him, a light brush of skin against the stretched muscle, and he tried to pull away when the same finger stroked his bottom lip, collecting the nectar spilling from his mouth on its tip. He looked up at Sherlock as best as he could manage given the situation, and saw his flatmate lick the stuff, his tongue darting out delicately, before putting the digit into his mouth, pressing his full ( _luscious_ ) lips around it and sucking, those eyes of his closed in apparent concentration.  
  
As if it had sensed John's attention wandering elsewhere, the plant started to go at him more vigorously than ever, thrusting forcefully into him from behind and into his mouth, and pulling at his aching cock with brutal determination.  
  
John's vision whited out as he reached orgasm, and the tentacles continued to fuck him through the crashing waves of it, brutally, going on for some time even after he was spent.  
  
The one in his mouth was the last to leave this time, even though John, on his side and limp, was barely sucking on it now - his jaws  _ached_  - and it stayed there, pulsing lazily as the root-tentacles (he had noticed, some time in the middle of the second week, that these ones came from the bottom of the plant, pushing up through the earth it was potted in) lapped up his semen from his cock and from the bed. It slid out when everything was done, oozing across his cheek in what might have been construed as a farewell caress.  
  
John watched Sherlock look at the plant, all right and proper back in its pot, bright and healthy and deceptively innocent.  
  
"Well - " he started to say, but never finished, because John, perhaps having had more of that damned plant juice pushed into his system than usual, reckless and, God help him, still horny even after all that, pulled him down and kissed him roughly, forcing his tongue and as much of the nectar still there as he could manage deep into Sherlock's mouth.   
  
He pulled away, leaving Sherlock looking stunned, the pink tip of his tongue darting around his lips, lapping up what John had left there. The doctor was viciously satisfied at the slightly glazed look of his eyes, and, beneath that, the dilated pupils. He didn't suppose he was imagining the bulge at the front of Sherlock's trousers either.  
  
"Sherlock fucking Holmes," he said, "If you  _think_  it's just me  _your_  damned plant is going to mess with tonight, you've got another thing fucking coming. Take your clothes off."


End file.
